


Why They Actually Do Get On

by joudama



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Gen, John Watson is long-suffering, Sally Donovan isn't an idiot, Sherlock Holmes is as mature as a small child, Sherlock's Violin, but not really, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joudama/pseuds/joudama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are, in fact, reasons why Sherlock and John get on so well. Namely, intimidation via Cluedo boards, pouting, and the occasional serial killer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Such is Life in 221B

**Author's Note:**

> This happened because, as I was writing Mycroft's take on Sherlock and John for "Why They Get On," I realized all three ficlets could have been taking place over the same day/case, and decided to go from there (decided when I, everybody all together now, _got bored at work_ ). Vaguely caseficcy, but only vaguely, since the case isn't actually the point (also, I can't be arsed for all that research - bored at work fic, yo). Gen or pre-slash, depending on however you want to read it. :)  
>    
> Not brit-picked, alas, alack, so any glaring Americanisms are completely and wholly my fault (I tried to catch as many as I could, but y'all know how it goes). And any overall screwy English is due to me forgetting _English_ , which I do from time to time because I've been living in a non-English speaking country for a decade now and am kinda forgetting how my native language works. XD;;;  
>    
> Doing short chapters instead of one long fic is an experiment for me, so we'll see how it goes. ^^;;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is never dull in 221B.

John opened the door to the refrigerator and swore.  
   
"Not my fault," Sherlock said, not even looking up.  
   
"For once, no," John said, shaking his head. "This one's on me.  Knew there was something I forgot," he sighed, and shut the door. "I was going to pick up more milk and eggs yesterday on my way home, and I completely forgot. Remind me next time, yeah?"  
   
Sherlock did look up at that, and to give him a _look_.  
   
"Remind me, or I send _you_ out to do the shopping."  
   
Sherlock shuddered dramatically before focusing back on his laptop. "Duly noted."  
   
"Right. I'm going to go pop out and pick some things up from Tesco so we can actually have breakfast, which you _are_ going to eat. Need anything?"  
   
Sherlock didn't respond, so John took that as a no.  
   
"Right. Don't blow anything up while I'm gone."  
   
"It was only the once," Sherlock said defensively, and John bit his cheek to keep from grinning.  
   
"So let's keep that from becoming a repeat, shall we?" he said, and ducked when Sherlock threw a cushion at his head.  
   
-  
   
John took one look at the kitchen when the got home and just _blinked_.  "Well, at least you didn't technically blow anything up. I think."  
   
Sherlock scowled. Or rather _pouted_. "The lid wasn't on completely," he said by way of explanation.  
   
John just blinked more, glad he'd picked up a muffin and coffee on the way back, because the kitchen was looking pretty grim and unusable.  "That'd explain the bits of...what was that, anyway?" he said, frowning as he tried to identify the few solid bits of what had been some kind of viscera.  Looked like liver.  
   
"Liver," Sherlock groused, and John was a bit proud of himself for being right. "Bison liver."  
   
 _Bison_ \--?! "Right. The bison liver on the ceiling. And everything else." John said, feeling the corner of his mouth turn up, because that "everything else" also included one small bit of gore Sherlock had apparently missed when he was washing his hair after his failed attempt at...whatever he'd been doing that required bison liver in the blender, and the sight of it kept John from losing his temper at the whole thing, because he could only imagine the look Sherlock must have had on his face when the blender spat pureed liver out all over him.  The kitchen was a bloody mess worthy of a crime scene, but Sherlock himself had probably been even _more_ of a bloody mess.  
   
John clamped down on the snicker he felt as the bit of what had been liver started slithering its way down one of Sherlock's curls, and managed a bland voice when he said, "Well, at least it gives you some interesting splatter patterns to catalogue as you clean it up."  
   
Sherlock grinned suddenly at the realisation things weren't a _total_ wash, and the way he perked up made the bit of liver finally slide out of his hair, and it landed on the floor with a faint _plop_.  
   
\--  
   
John gave in, as he almost always did, to Sherlock when he was actually being reasonable, and ended up helping Sherlock clean the kitchen - it had been an accident and Sherlock was right in that it'd go a lot faster with two of them doing it...and Sherlock had given him that stupid _look_ , that very practiced and completely fake look of helplessness that John gave in to even though he _knew_ it was a complete and total act.  

He did, however, make sure to keep Sherlock to the "two of them" part of it, or else it would have turned into "John cleaning Sherlock's mess whilst Sherlock fucked off somewhere."  Sherlock did indeed try to fuck off, which John allowed the one time owing to Sherlock requesting he be allowed to wash his hair again and make sure there was no more liver in it, but only the once, despite Sherlock's whinging, cajoling, attempts at bribery, and aggrieved proclamations of it being tediously dull and that if they left it, Mrs Hudson would clean it.  
   
The last one got a glare from John, and Sherlock huffed in irritation before he grabbed the rag out of John's hands and climbed up on the table to scrub at the ceiling, snottily informing John he'd do it because John's short little arms would undoubtedly not be long enough to reach.  John ignored the jab as beneath him and went about rewashing all the dishes that had been out.  
   
He stepped in something squishy, and he vowed to make Sherlock scrub the floor once he was done with the ceiling.  
   
\--  
   
After they got the kitchen clean, it was just about lunch time, and John felt a slight pang at the idea of dirtying up the kitchen after they'd spent hours cleaning it.  
   
 _No help for it_ , he thought.  _Especially since I know that madman didn't eat breakfast_.  
   
"If I cook," John said, "and put food in front of you, you're going to eat it, right?"  
   
"Boring."  
   
"Not my question."  
   
 Sherlock made one of his annoyed sounds, but John crossed his arms and _waited_.  
   
"Fine," Sherlock huffed finally.  "But you said breakfast and there was no breakfast and I want eggs."  
   
Dealing with Sherlock Holmes, John thought, and not for the first time, was like dealing with a recalcitrant toddler.  But if the stupid git wanted eggs, that meant he actually wanted to eat, and John felt that was to be encouraged.  Plus, with eggs, there was a chance of sneaking some vegetables in there.

Some days, John honestly had no idea how Sherlock had managed not to die of malnutrition prior to John moving in and sneaking vegetables into his food and insisting that Sherlock at least take vitamins on the days he was too busy bloody thinking to eat.  
   
"Scrambled OK?"  
   
"Acceptable."  
   
 _Hallelujah_ , John thought.  _Tomatoes, cheese, and red peppers are going into that_.  "Anything else besides eggs, then?"  
   
"DON'T CARE," Sherlock said emphatically, and John rolled his eyes before setting to work, figuring if he was making a weekend brunch, because it was far too late for breakfast thanks to all that cleaning, he was going to do a _proper_ fry-up, and started pulling out ingredients.  
   
\--  
   
There had been relatively little arguing at brunch - Sherlock decided to not be a prat and he actually ate the food John set in front on him, even snagging another waffle and another sausage on top of the eggs stuffed with damned near every kind of vegetable they had in the refrigerator not marked with "Do not use; for an experiment."  John filed that away: Sherlock would eat sausages and blueberry waffles (bless that waffle-maker splurge purchase). And eggs if he was in a mind for them.  
   
He decided to give bangers and mash a try some time that week or next, and see if Sherlock would go for it, even though he could be a picky, annoying posh git about _everything_ , including food. Still, he'd eaten two sausages, so John figured it was a fifty-fifty shot. Plus, to counter the "picky posh git" thing, he _had_ seen Sherlock eat beans right out of the tin once after a particularly difficult case, so there was always that - you never quite knew with Sherlock.  
   
Sherlock curled himself on the sofa as soon as he was done, not even an offer to help with the dishes, but he was asleep before John was even halfway through the washing, which John realized when he said, "You could help, you know," and looked over his shoulder to see Sherlock now sprawled on his back on the sofa, one gangly arm trailing off the side, neck at an angle he was going to regret when he woke up, and fast asleep. John was happy enough about Sherlock actually sleeping - the man was a worse insomniac than him, and _he_ at least had right proper case of PTSD to blame for that one, not an overactive brain - that he let it go with a sigh.  
   
Plus, he figured he'd got Sherlock Holmes to both eat _and_ sleep (admittedly, Sherlock had just finished a case the night before, so the next day usually was Sherlock's 'recovery' day, where he finally listened to his 'transport' and ate and slept to make up for what he'd missed, and John made sure whatever food went into Sherlock was relatively healthy and not just bags of crisps, biscuits, and whatever wasn't too expired from the fridge), plus even clean up the mess from an experiment gone pbbth.  

Really, he was doing pretty well that day.

When he finished washing up, he made himself a cup of tea, and settled down in his chair to read while Sherlock was asleep, because he'd learned the hard way that if he tried to read while Sherlock was awake (and not engrossed in a book of his own, online, or doing an experiment), Sherlock would read the back of the book and deduce the entire plot, twists and all. Loudly. And then came John occasionally throwing the book at Sherlock's head, and the once threatening to eviscerate Sherlock with his violin bow.  
   
Sherlock had said that was physically impossible; John responded by narrowing his eyes and daring Sherlock to dare _him_ to give it a go. 

Sherlock had eyed the Cluedo board John had impaled to the wall with an Afghani dagger last time he'd been that angry, and wisely declined, since he rather liked that bow. And his internal organs not being removed via said bow.

John read his book, and Sherlock slept.

\--

The sun was beginning to go down, and John was beginning to think about flipping on the lights and maybe poke around for something to make for dinner when Sherlock finally woke up, bleary-eyed and his lip poking out like a small child.

"Tea?" Sherlock said when he finally came on-line enough to manage a word.

"You're lucky I was about to get up anyway," John said with a sigh. "Hungry?"

Sherlock made a sound John was pretty sure was supposed to be a negative, but he ignored it. "Right, food it is, then."

Sherlock gurgled some aggrieved sort of sound and blinked owlishly. John ignored Sherlock being completely out of sorts; the man normally was useless the first ten minutes after he woke up, which was not a surprise given all the stimulants he normally subjected his body to.

John also knew from experience that he had another day, maybe two, before Sherlock started getting _bored_ , so he was going to enjoy this relative peace while it lasted.

He turned the kettle on, then flipped on a light and sat down. Sherlock looked at him sullenly.

"I can't change the laws of thermodynamics, Sherlock," John said. "The water for tea has to boil." 

Sherlock gurgled another irritated sound and laid back down on the sofa face-down with a thud.

"You're going to be useless until you get caffeine in you, aren't you?" John asked, and got muffled grunt in response. OK. Brain still booting up. "Right. Well, just wait. Kettle should be boiled soon."

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like "thermodynamics are stupid," and John had to fight very, very hard not to laugh at his flatmate.

Luckily, the kettle went off then, so he was saved from laughing at Sherlock being grumpy and thus making Sherlock grumpier.

The tea only took a few minutes to brew and add milk and sugar to, and John spent those few minutes pondering dinner.

He put Sherlock's tea in front of him and was rewarded by Sherlock lurching up and reaching for it. "So. Curry tonight?"

Sherlock ignored him in favor of drinking half the tea at once before giving his head a shake, as if clearing it.

"Not hungry," Sherlock said, sounding much more awake than he had five minutes ago.

"Too bad," John said, smiling his not-bending-an-inch smile. "We have an agreement, Sherlock. You eat at least twice a day when you're not on a case. You are not on a case. Therefore, you have one more meal to go today. So. Curry?"

Sherlock made a face. "I ate a big brunch, remember?"

"Brunch, which is _one_ meal. You still have one more to go today," John said, still smiling, only now with more teeth showing.

Sherlock let out an annoyed huff. "Fine. Greek. I want dolma."

John's smile morphed away from the "don't make me hurt you" smile into a self-satisfied one. "There, see how easy that was?"

Sherlock rewarded him with a glare, which John ignored as he dug out the menu from the closest Greek restaurant that did takeaway. It wasn't that close, but John didn't mind going out to get it - he knew Sherlock was trying to annoy him with his restaurant choice, but he also knew Sherlock would actually eat if John went and got it. Or if John started playing with a sharp knife while pointedly looking at Sherlock and the food.

There was a reason John left the Cluedo board right where it was, and it wasn't just to emphasise that they were never, ever playing that game again.

\--

It was a nice evening, so John didn't mind the thirty minute walk to the restaurant, figuring he'd take a taxi back home, since his last bit of locum work they'd sent him out to Dublin for had paid quite nicely.

He enjoyed having a few minutes of calm to himself - they were rare, just rare enough to be enjoyable instead of making something in his brain start itching in on itself, feeling as if something was wrong and start twitching at shadows and waiting for gunfire.

John strongly suspected that knowing about that itchy feeling in his brain was a big part of why he had managed to keep from strangling Sherlock when the man was all but scratching up the walls. He could empathise _just_ enough to keep from taking out his gun and braining Sherlock with it.

It was a near thing some days, though.

When he stepped out of the taxi in front of the flat, he could see Sherlock standing in the window, playing his violin dramatically.

That violin was the best barometer to Sherlock's mood that there was, so John waited a moment before he went into their flat to gauge things.

Well. Nothing too worrisome from the sound; more like what Sherlock played when he wasn't in any particular mood but needed something to do.

That was safe. And it sounded rather nice, really - a bit fast, but not frantic, and the way Sherlock was playing was the way he played when he was enjoying himself, with all those bouncing leaps and expressive vibrato. Even the quiet bits sounded more like being pensive and not being sulky.

Yeah, he kind of liked this one, he thought as he opened the door.

John would say this much - living with Sherlock Holmes had definitely increased his appreciation for classical music.

He put the bags of takeaway down on the table just as Sherlock was playing the last few flourishing notes.

"Beethoven's violin sonata in A major," Sherlock said without prompting.

"Ta. I like that one," John said, setting out the food, and not noticing the tiny, crooked smile that briefly quirked Sherlock's lips at his words. "And I picked up some yiaourti for dessert. And you're going to eat it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, which John _did_ see, and chose to ignore. But once he finished stalling by wiping the rosin off his strings and putting his violin away, Sherlock sat down in front of the food and delicately stabbed one of the dolma with his fork and nibbled at it.

That was good enough for John, since some food was actually going into Sherlock, and he tucked into his moussaka.

\--

John had just flipped on the telly when Sherlock's mobile buzzed. Sherlock looked at it lazily from his sprawl on the sofa, and then jumped up in a flurry of energy.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, his face lighting up with glee as he grabbed his coat.  "Says he's got a possible _serial killer_ , John! A serial killer!"

Sherlock's unabashed joy was oddly infectious, and John wondered if he should be worried about that.

Then he decided it wasn't worth it to think too hard about, grabbed his own coat, and headed out after Sherlock.

Such was life in 221B for one John Watson and one Sherlock Holmes.  
   
\--


	2. Just a Bit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Sherlock says things that are a bit not good. But John gets it. He does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...yeah, I did not intend for it to take this long to get this chapter done, but work turned into hell (overtime...so much overtime...*cry*) so I spent my weekends passed out asleep instead of being productive, then I started getting ideas for the casefic aspect, despite the case not being the point, and had to research, and arrrrgh. Yeah, so, this took way longer than I expected. Sowwy! Un-beta'd and un-britpicked, alas, alack. ^^;;

They just stared at the crime scene for a moment, even Sherlock surprised at it and looking like he wasn't _quite_ sure what to start with.

You could say a lot about this murder, but "elegant" certainly wasn't one word that could apply. "Absolutely fucking mental," however, were words that _did_.

"Bit bloody, isn't it?" John finally said blandly. It was that or swallow thickly, and he had a feeling that would lead to bad things. Besides - he'd seen worse. And he knew enough to know if he reacted like he wanted, he'd spend the night twisted up in his sheets, dreaming of that _worse_.

Best not to, then, so blandness it was.

"Just a bit," Sherlock responded after a blink of his own, his eyes flicking from the ceiling to the walls.

"Kind of looks like the kitchen this morning. Minus the liver in your hair," he said with a faint jerk of his head upwards, gesturing at Sherlock's head.

"Minus the liver in my hair," Sherlock said, giving John a sideways look, and then the two of them managed a straight face for only a few seconds before they burst into snickers.

There were some situations where inappropriate levity was the only way to properly deal with them, and this was one of them. John was OK with that.

"So I reckon we can rule out death by blender, then?" John asked once he got his snickers under control, and kept his voice flatly bland even as a grin tried to come out at the corners of his lips.

"Splatter pattern's all wrong," Sherlock deadpanned.

"And no blender that big. I mean, where would you plug one that big in?" John said, feeling rather gory and a bit like he was going to hell, but he was a doctor, and he'd been a doctor and a soldier in a bloody _war zone_ where IEDs were _de rigeur_ , so he'd seen quite a bit of people who were _only_ bits ( _splatter pattern's all wrong for that, too_ , he thought. _Somebody_ intentionally _splashed up the walls with that girl's blood_ ), and if you didn't learn to develop that morbid sense of humor about it, it'd drive you mad. It was laugh or nightmares, and he had rather enough of nightmares, please and thank you. Let people think he was crazy - better people think he was than he actually _be_ that way.

"However improbable, John," Sherlock said, fighting to keep his straight face.

"Right. Go have a look around for that outlet then, shall I?" John said with a quirked up eyebrow, and they started giggling again.

"Are you girls finished, or are you going to start doing each others hair?" Lestrade cut in in irritation, shaking his head and giving them both disgusted _looks_.

John coughed. "Sorry. Yeah. Sorry. Just a bit of gallows humor, there." Well. He didn't mind people thinking he was mad, but there _were_ limits.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes as if annoyed, then abruptly turned his attention to the body and everything else was forgotten.

"Rare for you to call him in this quick," John said to Lestrade, and Lestrade grimaced.

"Yeah, well, didn't want this guy to make good on his threat," Lestrade replied back, and pointed to the wall. John blanched slightly at the small, neat, and very clear "1" looking like it had been painted on with a brush. In blood.

If there was a "1", there was probably going to be a "2" then a "3" and more. "Right. Yeah. Best to nip that in the bud, yeah."

"Exactly. Normally that git," he said, gesturing at Sherlock, who had his magnifying glass out and was examining the dead woman's hands, with his thumb, "is a last resort, but I'd rather not have any more like this around."

That was one of the reasons John liked Lestrade - he had his priorities.

Sherlock was paying them no mind, all but jumping around as he gathered his data, going from the dead girl to the walls and back, examining the body more closely, when suddenly he stopped short. "John."

John instantly snapped to attention - he knew that tone of voice. He was over to Sherlock's side before he even registered he'd moved, crouching down to see what Sherlock wanted him to look at.

"Look at her mouth."

John frowned, peering closely at the woman's mouth, and--

His breath caught. "Her mouth's been sewn shut," he said, going onto his knees now so he could lean in closer. The stitches were done with the clear filaments normally used for plastic surgery stitching. They had been neatly done as well, on the inner surface of her lips so at first glance, her lips just looked like they were closed - someone with some skill had done that. "Postmortem, from the looks of things. No blood traces I can see, and no swelling." He looked at her face and mouth more closely. "But...I think there's something in her mouth," he finally said.

He looked up at Sherlock, who nodded. "Well spotted," Sherlock murmured approvingly, and John didn't miss the look of anticipation in Sherlock's eyes; he knew the man well enough to know he wanted to grab a knife or scissors and cut open the poor girl's mouth right then and there and find out what the killer had placed within.

John looked back at the body, and fought the urge brush the dead girl's hair back from her face. It would have been a useless gesture of comfort and kindness, but it was still there, and held in check only because this was a crime scene and the police were still gathering evidence.

Jesus. She looked so young. She was barely in her twenties, maybe not even out of her teens, and it was always painful to see kids - and she was a kid to him, a lot like the kids he'd seen dead on both sides in Afghanistan - like this, and he hated it; hated that there was nothing he could do for her, not even hold her hand as she died.

Sherlock had no idea anything had gotten to John; he was in full-on detective mode and was already up and pacing. "Oh, he's thought this one out," Sherlock said, eyes gleaming at the challenge. "A serial killer, this one, and just getting started. Not actually his first murder, but the first one where he's developing his calling card style. The others, I'd say two, but that's just a guess right now, didn't count, they were all practice runs, but this one he claims with pride. Oh, this is _excellent_ ," he said, grinning happily, and John shook his head.

"Sherlock. A bit not good," he said as he stood up.

Sherlock paused. "Why?"

"Because _three dead girls_ , Sherlock," John said.

"Maybe three dead girls. Might have tried this out on pigs first," Sherlock said, and John couldn't deny a feeling of relief at Sherlock's uncertainty.

A sense of relief which Sherlock promptly killed. "Which is why I'm not sure if there's one or two prior victims. Definitely one; but not sure whether the one before was a test run on a human or animal..."

Sherlock stopped short. "What?" he said, sounding irritated and staring straight at John with a faint frown.

John sighed. "Just...I know it doesn't matter to you, that it won't help you solve the case any faster, and that it's all just 'useless sentiment,' but...someone, _somewhere_ is going to miss those girls," he said, then his mouth tightened. "Or worse, no one'll miss them at all, because they never had anything good and now they never will." John sighed again, feeling tired suddenly. He much preferred the cases that came in from his and Sherlock's websites over the cases Lestrade brought them. The police cases, there was never anything they could do for the victims besides bring their families - if they even had any that cared, which he wondered if this girl did - closure. There was nothing left to save, no one left to help, when it was a dead girl lying in a gory room. "Look, let's just get her to morgue so we can find out what that nut shoved in her mouth so you can find him faster," John said, shaking his head. "You just put that big brain of yours on that."

He clenched and unclenched his left hand into a fist quickly several times, to cover the faint tremble that had started and to get it back under control.

He hoped Sherlock didn't notice, but he didn't hold out _much_.

"Just give it up, John," Donovan said loudly from off to the side. "He won't ever get it, you know."

His hand clenched again as he tried to keep things under control, but now for an entirely different reason. "Right. Morgue next, shall we?" he said, and his voice was bland.

\--

Molly refused to let Sherlock cut open the girl's mouth himself, though it was clear he dearly wanted to. "You don't get to do autopsies, Sherlock. And that's part of one," she said firmly. There were very few things she stood up to Sherlock on, but her actual _job_ tended to be one of them (and John respected her quite a lot for always standing firm in that one respect), and Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh.

"Look, I'll do that first, OK? Then I'll the rest of the autopsy and the tests. Cause of death, all that good stuff," she said with a little smile, and John was reminded of how they were all mad here.

"Fine," Sherlock groused. "But cause of death was clearly exsanguination."

"Yes, yes," Molly said, clearly humouring Sherlock. "Sit down and I'll get that mouth open for you."

"Ta," John said, because it was clearly Sherlock preferred to grumble at not getting to do it himself over thanking Molly for shifting the order of things around for them.

Sherlock paced impatiently as Molly went about getting the girl's body ready and pulling out a small tape recorder to record the autopsy. She described the body in detail (Sherlock heaved a great bloody sigh whenever she seemed to miss something), then began to describe her procedures aloud, beginning with cutting open the sutures.

"Subject's mouth has been sewn shut; there are signs that a foreign object was placed in her mouth prior to suturing," she said. "Cutting the sutures now to remove the foreign object."

"Finally!" Sherlock let out, and John stomped on his foot. "Ow!"

"Hush!"

Molly, trooper that she was, ignored them, and began cutting the filaments, and Sherlock all but bounded over, practically quivering with excitement.

Once the last suture was cut, Molly opened the girl's mouth and picked up a pair of long tweezers. "Extracting the foreign object now." She put the recorder down, and her eyes went wide as she pulled the object out of the girl's mouth. "A ... _bug_?" she said, sounding surprised.

"No," Sherlock said. "A spider."

"Well, at least it wasn't a moth," John said with a sigh, and both Molly and Sherlock gave him a blank look. "Buffalo Bill? You know, 'The Silence of the Lambs'? The 'It puts the lotion on its skin' guy? Oh, never mind," he said.

\--

Sherlock was silent the cab ride back, completely focussed on his phone as he searched out the details of exactly what kind of spider had been in the girl's mouth, when he stopped, looked at John, and, what seemed to be out of nowhere went, "I don't understand." 

"Pardon?" John said, blinking. If there was something about the case Sherlock didn't understand, John was sure to be of no use, but he had the feeling - something about the way Sherlock had seemed to shift gears - that it had nothing to do with the case; that it was something else that was bothering him.

"You want to save people," Sherlock said, and yeah, this was clearly something different, and the way Sherlock said it made John sit up. "And I want to solve the case, which is much easier when it's _interesting_. The sooner I solve it, the less likely that more people will die. So I don't understand," he said, and there was a hint of petulance in his voice. "I don't understand why it's 'a bit not good' that I enjoy what I do and the details someone has thought of in the puzzle when the end result is precisely what everyone else wants to happen - the criminal goes to jail and the murders stop. You would think people would be _happy_ that I want to throw myself into solving a serial killer case!"

It was so much like what he had said during the 'Game' with Moriarty, but almost painfully different - there wasn't that sharp, icy-cold knife-like anger this time. There was something almost _childlike_ in the way Sherlock had said it, like a little kid trying to understand the weird world of grown-ups when they had no frame of reference yet to puzzle it out.

"Because other people don't see that part of it."

"Other people are idiots."

"Well, yes. But other people see a murdered girl, and that's never something to cheer."

"I'm not 'cheering' about a dead girl."

"I know," John said, because he did get it. He _did_ get Sherlock, even when Sherlock's reactions shocked him. Sherlock didn't cheer the murder of that girl - or anyone - per se, just the mystery it brought him. He didn't want anyone dead, wouldn't want someone dead just so he'd have a nice little murder to solve...but if someone _was_ going to have been killed, then he _would_ enjoy the solving of it.

He got that, now. He hadn't, not during that 'Game' with Moriarty. But once it had all clicked...he got it, and he got it probably better than anyone Sherlock knew.

He hadn't liked people dying and in pain, but he'd be every kind of a liar if he couldn't admit he had _loved_ the battlefield.

He _got_ it.

"I know. It's the mystery, not the murder. You don't like the murder beyond the idea of it as a case. But...but other people, most people, they don't see that, and they get the wrong idea." John sighed, trying to think of a way to put it. "You...you enjoy the mystery. And you should because you're right, you're liking to _does_ do good, even if that's not the _why_ of why you're doing it. But people see you happy and they take it wrongly. And that's not good, Sherlock. It's not good for _you_ , because it means people think the worst of you."

Sherlock's next words were arch and aloof. "I have never cared what people think."

John sighed again, to keep from trying to pull his own hair out. He couldn't think of how to put it so Sherlock understood. It wasn't about what people _thought_ ; it was about what people could _do_ , and Sherlock was painting a great bloody target on himself every single time he made himself seem so unfeeling. Sherlock was used to being and working alone, but John had been a soldier - he knew, had seen, what happened when people on your own side didn't trust you.

'Friendly fire' was used to cover a lot of things, and the thought of someone who thought the worst of Sherlock - Sally, Anderson, any of the myriad of others - turning on Sherlock when he least expected it...

"You may not, but it matters," John said softly. "Look, just...just keep the glee at the mystery in check around some of the yarders in front of a body, is all. Feel it all you like, I'm not saying you can't enjoy it, just...just try not to show it so much sometimes. Like cases like this."

Sherlock made a disgruntled, annoyed sound.

"Think of it this way. It's like in Harry Potter with the Ministry for Magic banning the use of magic around Muggles so they don't learn about it and panic or anything," John said finally, and Sherlock stared at him.

"What."

There _definitely_ hadn't been a question mark at the end of that, and John bit back a groan. Of course. Of _course_ Sherlock had no idea. Of course. "...Yeah, OK, I am going to sit you down and make you read every single Harry Potter book. Or watch the movies. Or maybe both," John said. He'd thought it was bad when Sherlock hadn't had a clue who either Lady Gaga or Adele were, but this was far worse - for someone so observant, the man truly lived under a rock when it came to pop culture.

(And Lady Gaga had been a wash, music wise, but Sherlock had been fascinated by the imagery in some of the videos, especially Bad Romance and Telephone, which John realised, once he thought about it, really shouldn't have surprised him at all (he was still kicking himself for not using _that_ chance to throw in introducing Beyonce - he had the feeling Sherlock would appreciate the _sentiment_ behind some of her more gleeful 'kick the idiot to the kerb' songs). Adele, though, he'd counted as a win when he'd come home from a crap day at the surgery to find Sherlock playing "Someone Like You" rather beautifully with some truly lovely improvisations and theme variations, which, after John had settled himself down to listen, Sherlock'd turned into a whole medley of interweaving melodies from "Set Fire to the Rain" and "Rolling in the Deep" with a few strains of "Rumour Has It" somehow gluing it all together before flowing back to "Someone Like You," and the whole thing had evaporated his bad day far better than the beer he'd been planning ever could have.)

"When this case is over, and right when the 'BORED' is settling in and you're about to shoot up the walls, it's a Harry Potter marathon for you. No arguments," he said, making his voice as pulling-rank as he could, and a smile tugged at Sherlock's lips.

"Yes, John," he said, and looked out the window.

John suddenly had a mental image of Sherlock yelling "Oh, Avada Kedavra!" in consternation at Anderson just to see if it would work, and he looked out his own window to hide the grin.


	3. The Clever Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The violin helps Sherlock think, and Sally rather likes to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the massive delay! :( Blame computer issues (my laptop died then I couldn't get my new computer hooked up to the internet, and all my fic is on Evernote), massive amounts of overtime, my company telling me to learn Chinese and take a proficiency test (whut), AND a busted right hand on top of all that. It's been an, uhh, interesting couple of months. 
> 
> Oh, and also researching for another fic that wants to be a series. Ahahaha, I need more hours in the day.  
> 
> Anyway! Chapter-specific notes! Sherlock started out playing the ciaccona from [Bach's Violin Partita #2 in D minor](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NFGPiQjn7r8), then flipped over to [Lutoslawski's partita for violin and orchestra](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=usvOA_gYJ-8), and finally [John Adam's violin concerto, movement III: Toccare](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3RxNVzV39Bc). And there's a nod to ACD canon in here in regards to Sherlock's violin. And I brought up Gaiman because, heh, "A Study in Emerald." XDDDDD

John put the pillow over his face in the futile hope that this time, it would block out the violin.

No such luck.

He looked at his clock and groaned once, fleetingly.

At least it was actual _music_ this time, and not annoyed grinding at the strings. At 3 bloody am, he'd take what he could get. There were times, usually 3 am, when he really wanted to bash Sherlock face in with the violin, but it was amazing how remembering that it was a Stradivarius, and therefore worth more than _he_ himself was, to keep him from it.

Sherlock had been almost gleeful when he told John how he'd found the thing for sale when he was sixteen at a pawn shop, and how neither the original owner or the pawnshop had any idea just what it was or how much it was actually worth. They'd only seen a beaten-up violin desperately in need of costly repairs; he'd seen an Amanti-style early Stradivarius thought lost well over a hundred years ago.

John didn't actually want to know why Sherlock had been in a pawn shop. Well, he had an idea, but really didn't want to think that Sherlock had been that young when he started drugs. He could all too easily imagine a teenage Sherlock going to a pawn shop to sell off something ridiculously expensive to feed a brand-new habit and instead walking out with a rare violin, hugging it to his chest with that grin of his on once he walked out the store and it was undeniably his. Could imagine a teenaged Sherlock, not quite as practiced at hiding things getting that wide-eyed look of discovery as he realized what it was; almost breathlessly asking how much it was and trying to give nothing away as the clerk did what he _thought_ was fleecing the poncy public school kid by adding an extra hundred pounds onto the price he gave to bring it up to exactly what Sherlock had gotten for whatever he'd pawned, then Sherlock handing over the money with a manufactured look of irritation but without so much as a second thought, all the while scarcely able to _breathe_ until he walked out of the store with what had become his most prized possession in that moment outside of the shop.

Five hundred pounds for a violin worth at least _two million_.

It really was rather amazing how "at least two million pounds, maybe closer to three, judging by the last auction of a Stradivarius. I've not had it professionally appraised. No point, not selling, the world thinks it lost anyway, and I'd rather not invite a tedious theft and risk making that loss true, thank you" was enough to stop John from ever breaking the violin in half whenever Sherlock was making it do its best "tortured cat" impression.

That, and Sherlock's "selling your organs on the black market wouldn't cover the cost of what restoring it had been."

The music stopped, and just when John was drifting back off to sleep, Sherlock started up again. John woke enough to listen, and he groaned again.

Now Sherlock was playing something dreadfully modern and dark and overwrought that made the hairs on John's arms stand up on end.

The case was not going well, then.

Sherlock had been trying to find a way to connect the dots between pig's blood (which is what it turns out the killer had all but painted the walls with, not the girl's blood) and a spider in the girl's mouth ("Young woman, a spider, something to do with Ariadne, _surely_ , look at how he stitched up her mouth, but the pig's blood, John! Why?"), and it looked like the frustration of missing something was getting to him.

John debated in his head what to do - stay in bed and listen to Sherlock caterwauling away on that creepy music John was going to very politely insist in the morning that he never play again, or get up, go downstairs, and hope Sherlock decided to think out loud at him instead (and also forcefully insist that Sherlock never play that creepy music again). Either way, he wasn't getting any sleep; it was a matter of if he wasn't getting any sleep in his nice, warm bed or the sofa. And how long he had to listen to what sounded like pained moans interspersed with the pain of a futile existence.

It was too much like the inside of his head had been some days.

Right, then.

"Sherlock. Sherlock!" John yelled. Sherlock ignored him and kept on playing, so John rolled out of bed and stumbled down the stairs, stomping through the living room until he was right in front of the other man. "Sherlock! Stop!

"What?!" Sherlock snapped, looking put-out that John was interrupting him. "I'm _thinking_! Go stomp about somewhere else."

John gritted his teeth and took a deep breath before speaking. "Sherlock. If you promise to never, ever play that again, or anything that sounds like that, at any hour of the night normally reserved for sleeping by most people, I promise to...I promise not to make you eat for two cases."

"Two for forever? Seriously now, John," Sherlock said, sounding insulted.

"Two and the forever is I never let slip on my website you play nightmarish noise at arse o'clock on a _lost Stradivarius_ normally kept in a nondescript violin case in the living room."

Let it never be said that Sherlock Holmes was a stupid man. "...That, and five cases."

"Three."

"Four."

"Three, but you chose the cases."

"Deal, and make me tea," Sherlock said, and immediately raised his violin again and began playing something that _didn't_ sound like it was inviting hell's minions up from the depths to sup on John's pain.

John felt a wave of irritation, but knew there was no point. Besides, he thought, doing something that was a simple diversion was a good thing sometimes, and there was nothing quite as soothing as focussing on making tea. Making tea actually required some level of skill; it was his job because he tended to be better at it than Sherlock.

Sherlock could be meticulous about many things, but he was impatient and hated anything he thought of as "tedious". Making tea was tedious but necessary, and those jobs - paying the bills, making tea, buying food - had slowly but surely been delegated to John. Sherlock was perfectly capable of such things, but getting him to do them was like pulling teeth. John had found things ran much smoother if he took care of the mundane things. Not only did they get done in a timely manner, but it meant he always had a calming, brainless out for when he was about ready to create a crime scene of his own in 221B.

So he made the tea, and it kept him from destroying a priceless instrument because his flatmate was an insufferable dick.

It wasn't until he tried to measure out the tea leaves that he realised his hand was shaking again. How long had--yeah, that explained why Sherlock had given in so easily, John thought with embarrassment. And what he was playing now - it was agitated, which clearly fit Sherlock's mood, but it was also that oddly repetitive music he would play when John seemed frayed. It usually worked, too, giving John something else to think about other than the shadows in his head. 

He didn't want to go to bed right now - didn't even want to try. It wouldn't end well for him, and he'd have none of that, thanks. He'd had enough nightmares since Baskerville, which had seemed to bring far too many things screaming back. He was finally getting back to normal, but he knew when a strategic retreat was in order, and that meant staying up whilst his mad flatmate played his violin through his frustration rather than close his eyes and see another landmine-mangled body of someone he couldn't save being brought in.

He sat a tea cup down by Sherlock, then sat down in his chair, and listened to Sherlock play. Whatever it was had gone from agitated repetitive runs to bouncing with sharp pizzacatos in the midst of the bowing, Sherlock twisting as he had to go from bowing to plucking and back in only a moment's span, and back to agitated.

John kind of liked this one.

Sherlock suddenly stopped playing, and John looked at him in surprise. "John Adam's violin concerto, movement III, the toccare," Sherlock said, his foot tapping rhythmically. His head was also bobbing slightly in time with his foot, and John realised suddenly that Sherlock was counting in his head. Explained why he was talking to John - it was a long rest in the music. Normally, he knew Sherlock would just jump ahead if he came to a long rest, but talking also helped him when he was stuck, and it seemed like he was combining both things.

"--rather interesting, really, since he started using minimalism, but was a technique he called--" Sherlock stopped midword, his eyes going wide and his mouth falling open into a perfect circle. "Oh," he let out breathlessly, music forgotten - his foot stopped tapping out time and he'd gone still save for an excited quivering, as if his very skin had gone electric. " _Oh_!" His face lit up. " _Trickster_ , John! Not Ariadne, _Anansi_! The _trickster_!"

He put the violin and bow down and grabbed John enthusiastically by the shoulders, pulling him out of his chair. "John, you are amazing!" he said, eyes alight with glee and John felt completely confused, as he normally did when Sherlock had one of his moments of insight, but he couldn't help the answering smile on his face to Sherlock's sheer joy even if he did have no idea what Sherlock was on about. Sherlock was instantly off, all but diving for his laptop, and thoughts streaming out of his mouth as he typed. "I would have gotten there eventually, of course, but if you hadn't been so insistent I not play anything like Lutoslawski it might have taken longer. Of course! The Trickster!"

"Yes, yes, all right. Sherlock," John finally said, moving Sherlock's mug of tea to the table, where it would be safe from the whirlwind, before sitting back down. " _What_ are you on about? What have you figured out?"

"The _spider_!" Sherlock said. "And it explains the '1' he wrote; he's trying _deliberately_ to mislead us! Don't you see?"

"It's 3 in morning and I don't follow you at all," John said blandly.

Sherlock got a familiar, exasperated look on his face before he finally explained. "Anansi. A spider trickster god. That was why he used a spider. Variations on a theme of _tricksters_. That's the pattern we have to look for, not messy crime scenes.

"I do so love the clever ones," Sherlock said, never looking away from his screen, and John felt the urge to throw something at the wall, because John remembered full well the last time they'd dealt with someone _clever_ , and god save them from another one of _those_.

\--

"All right, what have you got?" Lestrade said, his face tight but something relaxing around his eyes - John knew this case had been bothering him even more than the frustration of it had been getting to Sherlock. Normally, Sherlock would have texted information and badgered Lestrade through texts until the man was ready to snap or came over with whatever it was Sherlock needed, but the case had been itching at Sherlock for far too long now - he said they were going to the Yard so he could start pouring through the files there himself. His own impatience wouldn't let him just text, and John was glad for that, for all it meant he'd been dragged out of the flat first thing and commanded, bloody commanded, to skiv off work if he had it.

Sherlock had no idea how lucky he was that John had the day off.

"Tricksters!"

Lestrade got a long-suffering look on his face John could completely empathise with. "Yeah, you said that. In the text you sent me at 4 bloody AM. Want to explain what it meant? Because that's not even as helpful as 'wrong!', mate."

Sherlock was the one with a long-suffering look on his face that time.

"Sherlock," John said, before the other man could even open his mouth. "The only person living in your head is you, so none of us out here can hear your logic leaps. Walk everyone through it so we're all on the same page, yeah? This one took you until this morning to figure out; can't expect everyone else to be there just because you are."

Sherlock muttered something about "tiny little minds" and "tedious" that John and Lestrade elected to ignore, even though Donovan took the bait like always and started fuming quietly off the the side.

"The first one," Sherlock finally began, "was probably an accident. For the killer, a happy accident. Not so much for his victim. He's killed at least once or twice after that, perfecting his technique."

"We need to look for any cold cases with either homeless or prostitutes, where there was something odd or out of place at the scene - something like a rabbit foot or mistletoe or something related to a fox. He's referencing mythological tricksters. The spider was Anansi!"

Lestrade had a look on his face like Sherlock as speaking ancient Sumerian, but Donovan blinked, the fuming from a few minutes ago disappearing instantly as something clicked. "What, you mean like Mr. Nancy in _Anansi Boys_ and _American Gods_?"

"Donovan, I do hope extended periods in Anderson's company haven't rendered you as big an idiot as he," Sherlock drawled.

Donovan bristled. "You're talking about Tricksters. So, you mean like Anansi or Loki - that's why the mistletoe, yeah?" she said, narrowing her eyes. "And the rabbit's foot, that's like the rabbit from that racist Disney movie, Brer Rabbit? Tar or briers would be better for him," she finished, words smug.

Sherlock blinked as much as Donovan had before. "Um. Yes."

She gave him another smug look, enjoying the fact she'd gotten one up on him. It didn't happen often, so she was clearly enjoying this, and John could honestly say he couldn't blame her for it one bit. "What I was saying, those are books. By a bloke named Neil Gaiman, and they were about old gods and new ones. He--"

"Where is he? Where is he now?" Sherlock said sharply.

"America."

Sherlock sighed an aggrieved sigh. "Well, he's out as a suspect. Don't waste my time more."

Donovan looked like she was about ready to punch Sherlock in the nose and John gave her an apologetic half-smile, even as he made a mental note to pick up the books she mentioned. It couldn't hurt, after all.

"So," Lestrade said, and grinned. Donovan instantly got a wary look on her face. "Since you seem to be the resident trickster expert, I'll leave you to digging through cold cases, yeah?" he said to her, and her face fell.

Sherlock grinned suddenly. "Yes, since you seem to know what you might be looking for...do let me know what you find," he said cheerfully. "Since I'm only a consultant and you're always so loathe to let me look through files unattended. John, let's go. We have our own research," he said, and Donovan looked like she couldn't decide which grinning face, Lestrade's or Sherlock's, that she wanted to hit more.

\--

The next day, John was working a half-shift at the surgery, and he made a stop by the library on the way there. Sherlock was out doing only god or Mycroft knew what by the time he got home, so he settled down with one of his library books and a cup of tea.

Sherlock came in like a whirlwind a few hours later, spouting off about the NSY and how atrocious their filing system was when John was halfway through _American Gods_ , and stopped in a huff when he saw what John was reading.

"Why are you reading that? Reading something Sally read is certain to make you lose brain cells," Sherlock said disdainfully.

John raised an eyebrow. "It had her on the same page as you on the tricksters, remember? Anansi and Loki. Maybe the killer read the same books. They seem fairly well-known."

Sherlock stopped short and blinked, then made an irritated face. "I'll leave you to it, then," he said. "Tell me if there seems to be any...relevant data," he spat out, looking like admitting even obliquely that the books could be of use was paining him, and John bit back a smile, then settled back to read.

So far _American Gods_ really was pretty good, and Sherlock looked so irritated at the very existence of it and _Anansi Boys_ in the flat John felt quite certain Sherlock would ignore them on principle, meaning for once, he _wouldn't_ get the book spoilt by a bored or annoyed Sherlock before he reached chapter three.

And if _that_ happened, he was definitely asking Sally for book recommendations. And in front of Sherlock every time.

\--

Sally Donovan looked no happier to be standing in their doorway than Sherlock did to have her standing there, going by the aggrieved and exaggerated sigh he let out when John opened the door for her.

She nodded politely enough to John, then walked over to Sherlock with a clenched jaw. "Got one for you, Freak," she said, laying down a file. "Was going through files for four bloody days, but this came up. Mistletoe poisoning. No one thought anything of it, 'cause it was Christmas," she said, and John bit back a wince at the look on Sherlock's face.

"Mistletoe?" John asked, and Donovan nodded.

"Yeah. You heard of Loki, yeah? Killed his brother with a sprig of mistletoe. It was the only thing that could kill him."

"How do you know that?" Sherlock said, looking irritated.

John could almost swear that Donovan's eyelid was twitching. "I told you, Freak. I _read_. Read _Sandman_ in uni and _American Gods_ at least twice. Loki's all over those."

"Fine. Leave," Sherlock said dismissively as he picked up the file, and Donovan clenched her hands into fists before she took a deep breath through her nose and threw her shoulders back.

"I'll keep looking and see if I find anything," she said, every word clipped.

"Doubtless you'll miss everything," Sherlock drawled without looking up from the file. "Just bring the cold cases to me anyway."

"Tosser," she muttered under her breath, and stomped out of the flat before John could say anything.

"Sherlock," he began.

"Thinking!" Sherlock hissed back, and John just rubbed his temple and asked Sherlock to pass him the autopsy results.

Wonder of wonders, Sherlock held the results out to John between two fingers, without a word of insult or complaint, and not looking up from intently scanning the crime scene photos for evidence the police would have missed, and John settled down in his chair to read.

\--

This body was completely different from the other, aside from youth - the girl before had been Afro-Caribbean, but this was a blond Caucasian kid, barely in his upper teens - and the fact that both had been living out on the streets. 

There had been no signs of injury and no signs of post-mortem attack. Just a street kid with a bellyful of half-digested mistletoe berries.

John glanced over at the toxicology report and frowned. "Sherlock...Sally said he was poisoned with mistletoe, and there were berries in his stomach, but this toxicology report says he died from acute phoratoxin poisoning," he said. "Now, I'm not up on my toxins, but..."

Sherlock looked up, surprised. "Phoratoxin?" he said, cutting John off. "That's mistletoe, but that's...oh," he said, and his whole face lit up. He jumped to his feet and snatched the toxicolgy report out of John's hands. "Oh, _clever_. But not quite clever enough with this little game.

"Phoratoxin comes from _Phoradendron tomentosum_. That's California mistletoe, not European mistletoe, which causes viscumin poisoning. And Anansi...he had a gender switch and became Aunt Nancy in the US. That's his pattern, John! He is a trickster! Clever, clever boy, and that's where they all trip themselves, needing to be so _clever_."

John had no idea what exactly Sherlock was talking about, but he knew what that look on Sherlock's face meant, and he grinned.

Whether their trickster killer knew it or not, they were moving into the endgame.


	4. The Yellowed Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paperwork is never fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies again for the massive delay! :( My life went a little stress filled, but I'm trying to get back into writing. And I was rediscovering TV and basically gorging myself on marathons of recent TV dramas. But, hey at least I am now mostly pop culturally literate again. I promised myself I'd get something out by the end of the month, and here we go. ^^;

It was too late, by then, to investigate the body itself, but Sherlock decided to check out the crime scene, knowing it was likely useless at this point, but that there might be some small something still left. And so they went.

"Nothing. Everything's completely been cross contaminated at this point," Sherlock said in irritation after less than fifteen minutes. "This isn't going to tell me anything," he grumped, and John just shook his head.

"You couldn't get anything else from the pictures, then?" he asked as they headed back to the main street.

"No."

John winced internally at Sherlock's tone. That tone didn't bode well at all for their flat remaining relatively undamaged.

"I wonder where someone gets American mistletoe. I mean, honestly, why bother?" John thought aloud. "Mistletoe is mistletoe. European's just as deadly. You'd have to order that special from somewhere, wouldn't you? And that spider for the first girl, too.  Not something you can just order up off Amazon," John mused, and Sherlock went still.

"Not off Amazon, no," Sherlock said with a sudden grin. "But a specialty import store? Perhaps. Why would someone order mistletoe especially from America in the middle of December just for a mistletoe murder, when there is mistletoe everywhere? Especially for a murder designed to tie into a European god?"

Sherlock really looked like he wanted John to answer that, specifically with the answer Sherlock had already come to, but John's mind was a completely blank as to what it was Sherlock wanted to hear.  "Because he's mental and has money to burn?"

The look Sherlock gave him was withering. Or would have been, were John not more or less immune by that point.

"No," he said. "It's because he's mental and has easy access to it," he said, pulling out his phone and beginning to type into it quickly. "Come on. We've legwork to do," Sherlock said, raising his hand for a taxi. "Someone's let go of an employee, or has a thief in the family so can't."

\--

By the time they got to the third specialty flower import shop, John found himself wondering why exactly it was that London had so many bloody specialty flower import shops. It seemed to be rather a niche market, and the internet was something of a thing, so he would have expected at least one or two or perhaps all of the bloody places for have gone out of business.

Sherlock had apparently decided to amuse himself as he investigated by putting on a different persona for each specialty shop, and this one seemed to be "breathless plant enthusiast."

John suspected he had been cast by everyone around as "long-suffering boyfriend," which tended to somehow be par for the course no matter what he said or did.

"Hello, now, what's this?" Sherlock said, still in character as he examined some green plant _thing_ with leaves that looked more like tentacles. "A spider!"

The clerk let out a faint swear. "Oh, not, not another one that hitched a ride! Border Forces usually catches them, but lately..." she said, shaking her head. "That's how tiger mosquitoes got all over Europe. One bad batch of tyres from Texas and boom! Asian tiger mosquitoes all over the place!" she said in irritation.

"No, I think this is a local, but wow," Sherlock said, sounding impressed, and John had to bite the inside of his cheek. "And oh, my! John, why did you let me dither on in here so long? The appointment's in ten!" Sherlock said, and John just rolled his eyes.

"Like you'd have listened anyway," he said, taking that as the sign Sherlock had everything he needed and was ready to go. "If we leave now, we'll make it."

Sherlock turned an utterly fake smile on the clerk. "Thank you for letting me look. I'll definitely be back later!" he said cheerfully, and gave her a little wave, then headed for the door.

As soon as they were out the door, the facade dropped, and the fake-cheerful was replaced with what looked like almost glee.

"Now this makes far more sense," Sherlock said, as he raised his hand for a cab. “Border Forces will have much more access to both animals and plants than an import store."

"Sherlock. We are not breaking into a government agency. Not again!" John yelled.  "Besides, Mycroft confiscated and cut up that ID card, remember? Like he was cutting up a credit card. He even took the pieces with him. Along with all the other IDs you'd nicked."

Sherlock made a face. "I've others," he said. "...now. Oh, shut up. If neither he nor Lestrade can defend themselves against a little pickpocketing..."

John groaned just as a cab pulled over. "I don't want to know, I do NOT want to know. Do _not_ make me an accessory after the fact, Sherlock! And regardless, _no_. Just ask Mycroft for access. Or at least tell Lestrade!" he said as they got in.

"Dull."

" _Legal_."

" _DULL_."

" _Sherlock_!"  
   
\--

John was not a stupid man - and he knew Sherlock. So the next day when he was at work, he pulled out his phone and made a phone call, for all it pained him to do so.

"A pleasure to hear from you, John."

He bit back the "whatever" that he really wanted to say.  "I need a favor, Mycroft."

"Does my little brother know you're asking me for help?"

"Of course not," John said, rolling his eyes.

"Stop by my club after you have finished your shift. Or before, if you can leave early. You know how my brother does so love to time things."

"Yeah, fine, I will. Good-bye," he said, trying not to be annoyed by the smugness in Mycroft's voice. Sherlock would sulk like a toddler when this came out, but John had no urge right then to get them on some terrorist watch list or whatever _again_ because Sherlock felt the need to be _clever_. 

Besides, he had been in the military. He knew that sometimes calling in favors was the quickest and easiest route, and he was pretty sure Mycroft was never expecting him to call in this one--or even to recognise it was owed.  Or,  he thought, realise that this was not a one-time-only calling of this one in; Mycroft had cocked it up enough with this one that John figured Mycroft owed them far bigger than this one favor of keeping.

\--

"I'll just save us all time and assume you know about the case we're working on for the Yard," John said after he sat down in the ridiculously comfortable overstuffed chair in one of the few rooms were talking was allowed in Mycroft's antisocial little club.

"Now John," Mycroft said, his voice faintly chiding. "Despite what my brother may tell you, I do not spend my days spying on his every move."

"No, you just try to hire people to do it for you,"John said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. 

Mycroft let out a slightly annoyed sigh. "While I worry about and yes, prefer to keep a close eye on him, especially given some of his past...recreational choices, surely you have noticed that I do not interfere in anything he does unless there is a compelling reason. Such as breaches of national security," he said, giving John a very pointed look.

 _Well_ , John thought, _now that's an easy intro_.

"Perfect. Then you'll be willing to help me now before your brother creates one. Again."

Mycroft got a slightly pained look on his face, one John was pretty sure he only got when Sherlock was involved.

"There's a chance the serial killer we're after worked at Border Forces or somehow had access there.  We need access to records to see if we can find records of the imported spider and mistletoe the killer used as his calling cards."

"Oh, how very exciting," Mycroft said with a small smile, and John reckoned Mycroft found it anything but - that was his "I'm humouring  you" smile. Then it morphed into something else.   "I can, certainly, get you access to the paperwork you need. However, you would, of course, owe me a small favor in return if I were to. You are aware of this, of course. And that I'll not ask for anything...excessive, later on down the road. Maybe a bit of legwork from you both, should the need arise."

That little smile Mycroft had on his face was one that John found he really rather hated.   _Well, then, time to make that go away_ , he thought.

"One name for you. Irene Adler," John said flatly, and was overjoyed to see that smile slide right off Mycroft's face with an almost audible thud. "You owe him more than _a_ favor for that mess," he said. "And me for having to deal with the train wreck she made him."

Mycroft was making a face now as if someone had shoved a lemon in his mouth, and John knew he'd won. Winning against a Holmes, either of them, didn't happen very often, and he cherished the few and far between moments when it did. Irene Adler had become a sore spot for both Holmes brothers, and while John would have rather shoved bamboo shoots up his own fingernails than use her against Sherlock, he had no compunction at all against using the fuck-up she represented against Mycroft.

"Besides, if you don't get us in or the information, Sherlock will get it himself," John said pointedly, and Mycroft let out a sigh Sherlock would have been proud of at that.

"I've already had the second card he...acquisitioned...cancelled."

"So, great, you've given him challenge. He'll _love_ that."

"...I will have copies of missing and destroyed items sent to you by morning, with items of suspect flagged. Since just prior to last Christmas will be sufficient, correct?"

 _So much for him not keeping tabs on everything Sherlock does_ , John thought, but just gave Mycroft a grin and said "Ta," and Mycroft made a face so similar to one of Sherlock's when he got thwarted that it was all John could do not to laugh.

\--

He no longer felt like laughing at all when Mycroft made good. Instead, John just stared wide-eyed at the piles of papers Mycroft's people were bringing into the flat.

"This is a joke, right?" he said.  "You're not telling me this many things went missing from what the Border Forces confiscated or were impounded in a six-month time frame? What am I saying, of course it was this many; it's the government," he said, dropping into his chair and putting his face in his hands; sudden visions of all the sleep he _wouldn't_ be getting any time soon flashing in his mind.

"You went to my brother," Sherlock said, looking torn between annoyed and wanting to dive into the boxes.

"No more breaches of national security, Sherlock. I do not want to be put on any watch lists. _Again_. No," he said, remembering right after Baskerville. 

Sherlock made a face.  “We weren’t on it long.”

“That’s not the _point_ , Sherlock.”

“You needn't have involved Mycroft,” Sherlock said, still looking needled. “ _Don’t_ do it again."

John barely resisted the urge to throw his hands in the air. “Fine, fine, let’s just look through the files."

“Don’t contact him again, John,” Sherlock said, his voice sharper. “He doesn’t give any help without a price.”

“You don’t think you’re being a bit paranoid?”

“No,” Sherlock said, his voice cold. “Mycroft traffics in information and _quid quo pros_ and manipulation. No favors from him are for free, John. Why do you think I hate taking on his ‘cases’?”

John sighed. “All right, all right. I won’t ask his help again. But since we’ve got all this now, let’s just see what we can find. And I thought me and Harry didn’t get on,” he finished under his breath.

“Well? Start looking,” Sherlock said, dropping down to sit in front of one box.

“For what, exactly?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, and John fought the urge to grind his teeth.

“Right, right, sure I’ll know it when I see it,” he said with a sigh, and picked up a file.

It felt like hours passed, and John was pretty sure his eyeballs were about to fall out of his head. He’d been through about a month’s worth of files, not altogether sure what exactly he was looking for, and it was worse than trying to find a needle in a haystack. He’d tried to stick with looking for some mention of mistletoe or spiders, but god only knew what other trickstery things he ought to be keeping an eye out for.

He sort of found himself wishing Donovan were there, because she at least would have had more of a clue what to be looking for.

Sherlock suddenly went so still he was almost vibrating from it. "Shipment destroyed after signs of...oh, oh, this is bloody fabulous!" Sherlock said, his whole face lighting up. "Found the spider," he said with a grin. His eyes were practically gleaming. "He's not _looking_ for items to match his tricksters, he's taking the items as a sign of what trickster! He found African spiders, so _Anansi_! 

He looked up, face completely gleeful. "Look for mistletoe, if you haven't been. The important thing now is to find that file! The name is sure to be there! Separate the files as you go through them by names of the agents even as you discard them. Our man is in these files! Well, don’t just sit there, look!” Sherlock snapped, and John reached for a file.

\--

“Sherlock, we’re taking a break,” John said three hours later. 

Sherlock started to open his mouth, but John cut him off. “No. A break. It does not have to be a long break, but we are taking a break. If nothing else, for hydration,” he said dryly. He’d been getting up regularly for something to drink, but Sherlock had ignored the glass of water then cup of tea John had put by him in the vain hopes the man would drink.  “Fifteen minutes for something to drink and at least some toast,” he said, pulling himself up from where he’d been sitting on the floor.

“I’m don’t need to--“

“Yes, you do,” John said flatly. “You may have missed it, but your stomach growled. I don’t press you during a case except for when your transport makes it clear it needs a break, and it just did. Fifteen minutes,” he said, and crossed his arms. “Give your brain some reboot time."

Sherlock made a face. “Your analogies are deplorable.”

John ignored him. “Toast, sandwich, or delivery?” he asked instead. Sherlock tended to do better with choices when he was being stubborn. Drop a piece of toast in front of him when he was in a mood and it would be ignored; force him to make a choice and stand them implacable until he did, and he’d eat under protest. 

“Sandwich. And the fifteen minutes starts now,” Sherlock said grumpily, but put the file he was looking at down and leaned against the couch and closed his eyes.

“Fine,” John said, and headed to the kitchen. He could get a sandwich and something to drink done in less time than that, and he knew they had ham and cheese in the fridge. And eggs, he remembered. That would do. Sherlock would eat maybe half a sandwich, so John figured he’d best load it with calories. Scrambled egg, ham, and cheese would do nicely.

It took ten minutes to get it ready, but he put it the sandwich down in front of Sherlock with five minutes to go, and said “Eat” with a smile that was all teeth.

Sherlock made another face, but ate.

\--

The moment the fifteen minutes were up, Sherlock dropped what was left of the sandwich back on his plate and picked up more files. John ignored him and kept on eating his very late lunch. But, in a sop to the annoyed look Sherlock gave him, John picked up the nearest file in his pile of unsorted ones, and opened it. And stopped short. 

“Sherlock. Sherlock!”

Sherlock looked up. “What? I already stopped and ate s--you found something,” he said, perking up.

“I think I might have just found the mistletoe.”

Sherlock pulled the file out of his hands and his eyes started flicking over it quickly. “Yes, might have done,” he drawled, trying to keep a grin down.

John gave into his immature side and broke off a piece of crust from his sandwich and flicked it at Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock managed to block it with a lazy wave of his hand as his grin grew, and reached for a file behind his head on the couch.  He smoothly opened it as he pulled it to him, and he held both files in front of him.

“And there we are,” he said. “Gotcha.”

“You’ve got the name?"

Sherlock’s happy grin almost split his face as he held the files out to John.

John looked over both, and paused. “Wait. There are two names on here that are the same, Sherlock," John said, frowning. "John Hebron and Monroe Jackson."

"And one of them is our killer, John. We need to find if there's been anything recent that would have caught his eye," Sherlock said. "Every file with their names, we have to check."

"Fabulous," John said, meaning the exact opposite. "I can keep working for a few more hours, but I do have work tomorrow, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed. "What's work compared to catching a serial killer?"

"It's what pays the bills. You know, the boring stuff that lets us swan off and do the fun, non-paying jobs from time to time."  John suddenly grinned. "Besides. Sally knows a lot more about tricksters than me. I'm sure she'd be much more valuable to you tomorrow when I'm out earning food money."

Sherlock got a look on his face like he had swallowed lemons, and John savored it as he reached for another file.

\--

John was about ten minutes from calling it quits for the night when Sherlock went very, very still.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock ignored him and instead grabbed his phone.  

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock continued ignoring him, but his eyes went wide as he read whatever he’d pulled up on his mobile.  “Kitsune….trickster fox spirits. John,” Sherlock said, finally looking up. “He’s found another trickster symbol. A kitsune mask,” he said, and held up a picture of an old mask with pointed ears and a faint muzzle. It had obviously once been white with red markings, but the red had faded and the white changed to a faint yellowed eggshell.  “Stolen antiquities, from three days ago. Inside the shipment was a Noh mask. Of a kitsune fox spirit. A trickster. But that mask isn’t in _this_ inventory list yesterday," he said, pulling out another file and waving a paper in John's face.

John felt his own eyes going wide. “So that means…”

“That means he’s on the hunt again,” Sherlock said. “We have to find him, and soon."

John picked up his phone and texted Lestrade as Sherlock lunged for his laptop.


	5. Not Quite What One Was Expecting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thing I learned writing this fic: I am noooooot cut out to write mysteries, uggggggh. It took me WEEKS to write an amount that normally would have been an afternoon at best, and good chunks of it were a struggle and a slog. UGH.

"So this arse is looking for someone to kill now, if they haven’t already," John said, feeling ready to start swearing. "That does not give us good odds," he said. "London is a very, very big place. What was the time frame between when this wanker found his trickster thing and there murders?"

“Two weeks for the first, but five days for the second,” Sherlock said. “He was wavering before. Now he knows what he’s doing, or at least, more inclined to act. We may only have a few days.”

John swore. Then picked up his mobile with a slight wince and called Sarah.

Looked like he _wasn’t_ going in to work after all.

—

“Hello? Sarah Sawyer speaking,” Sarah said when she picked up the phone, sounding like she was still half asleep.

“Sarah? Yes, it’s John. I’m sorry to call you so late,” he said, wincing slightly as it hit him that was 2am. 

“John? What is it?” she said, now sounding slightly more awake.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to work my shift tomorrow.”

“Oh, you can’t work your-- _What_?” Sarah began to sentence half-asleep, but her last word made it clear she had fully woken up. “Why not?"

“I’m on a case with Sherlock, and we’ve finally hit on a lead as well as a countdown.”

“Sherlock,” she said, with the same tone of voice she almost always used with him. “You’re blowing off you job and your responsibilities yet again to chase after Sherlock."

“I’m not—“

“Do you have any idea how much you doing this throws the surgery into confusion? How much it completely inconveniences everyone?” she asked sharply.

“Yes, I know, and I’m sorry. But it’s an emergency. You know I wouldn’t call in with this short of notice otherwise.”

Sarah made a sound that John could only describe as “rude.” He couldn’t honestly blame her for it, but he would be lying if he said he in any way appreciated it.

“Yes, you would,” she said pointedly, and John took a slow, deep breath to keep his temper in check. She was right, yes, but it was an emergency. It wasn’t as if he enjoyed putting his more stable line of employment in jeopardy, but he did have his priorities. “John, I’ve tried to be patient with this, but you’re a doctor. Have you forgotten that? You have a responsibility to this surgery and to your patients to care for them. Not just traipse alone after Sherlock. Just where, exactly, do your loyalties lie, John? Because it doesn’t seem to be to medicine any more."

Sarah’s words were like a slap to the face, and John clinched his free hand into a fist, then took another slow, steadying breath before he dared to speak. “We are tracking a serial killer. We think we only have another day, maybe two, before he gets his next victim. You want to know where my loyalties lie? They lie with _saving a life_. I became a doctor to save people. I went to bloody war to save people. And I am going to go with Sherlock today, to help track down this bloody serial killer, so I can _save someone_. My priorities have never changed. If you can’t see that, I honestly have no idea what I can say any further.

“A day, Sarah. Maybe two. Before someone dies. And you ought to know by now that when I do anything with this short of notice, lives, actual human lives, are at stake. I’ve seen the crime scenes, I’ve seen the autopsies, I have seen the bodies and the blood with this one. I can no more sit this out than you could pass by an accident and not stop to help, even if it meant not going to the surgery,” he ended.

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. “Fine. I’ll see if Anjali can come in. I expect a double shift out of you once this is over, to make up this.”

“Fair enough,” he said, and Sarah hung up before he could say anything else.

“Well, that went well,” John muttered, then stuffed his mobile into his pocket. Then tried to put the entire conversation out of his mind, and failed utterly at the attempt.

He headed back into the living room. Sherlock glanced up at him, then back at his laptop. “John, go to bed,” he said, attention focussed on whatever was on his screen.

“What?”

“I’m tracking down possible locations and properties owned by the two suspects, and a few other ideas to help track them down. It will take time. Lestrade can’t even get a warrant until he gets told where to look. There’s more than enough time for you to get the sleep you keep insisting you need. We will be running around all day tomorrow, so its better if you’re focussed. Forget the argument you had with that woman you continue to work for and go to sleep.” Sherlock glanced up and gave John a faint smile. “You’ll need to be battle ready.” He looked back at his computer, and John, grudgingly, figured Sherlock had a point. He was knackered anyway, and if he felt like the walking dead tomorrow, he’d be of no use. It, like Sarah’s words, rankled, but he also had to admit the truth to them as well.

“Wake me if you find anything urgent and we have to go,” John said, and Sherlock scoffed.

“As if I wouldn’t even if it wasn’t your idea of ‘urgent',” he said, and John rolled his eyes, then headed off to bed and sleep while he had the chance, because he suspected he wouldn’t be sleeping anymore until the killer was found.

\--

John slept lightly, and was awake earlier than he normally was. He showered and dressed quickly, knowing he likely wouldn't get an opportunity to do so in the next few days, if Sherlock was right about the time line. It was always a smart bet to assume Sherlock was right, since he in general was. It also meant he needed to eat now, while could, and make sure to stick a couple of protein bars in his jacket pocket, since Sherlock wouldn't want to stop to let John eat.

As soon as he got into downstairs, Sherlock was on his feet. "I checked both of their past schedules. Neither of them have taken time off in the last six months, meaning whichever one it is, they commit their murders at night, likely early enough for them to be able to return home and get enough sleep so they can go in the next day. Which means we can investigate their homes while they're out."

"I take it you haven't told Lestrade that? No chance of having a warrant, doing it all legal-like?" John said mildly as he made himself breakfast. He knew he wasn't going to have time to eat once they got started, so best to load up now. 

He also knew he wouldn't be able to make Sherlock eat, so he didn't bother. He did a fry-up for one, something that could easily get him through most of the day.

"No time, and they'd only get in our way," Sherlock sniffed, and eyed John cooking with obvious disdain.

John ignored that. "You know it won't look good if someone calls the police on us?" he asked instead, his voice mild.

Sherlock ignored that. 

John ate at a normal speed, figuring that if Sherlock was in a rush, he'd have already tried to needle John out the door. Doubtless it was because they had to wait anyway for the suspects to go to work.

Being left to eat in peace, however, wasn't in the cards. 

"I've checked to see when they're next scheduled to work--"

 _I hacked into a government database_ , John translated in his head as he ate his beans.

"--and both of them go in at 9 am, meaning their homes will be clear. We can easily check both before their shifts end at 5."

 _So, a light spot of housebreaking,_ John thought, as he used his bread into what was left of the beans, to get the last of the tomato sauce. He debated whether or not to take his gun with him, and decided it was best to leave it, then - no need to tack 'aggravated' onto a possible 'burglary' charge. He was glad he'd decided to go for a full English breakfast, because it sounded like they would be out most of the day from the way Sherlock was going on. And glad he had gotten up early, so he had time to eat, and Sherlock couldn't fuss at him about it - they couldn't even begin their 'investigating' until both men and gone to work. But the man was full of nervous energy, now that he had a direction. John debated whether or not to try and get Sherlock to at least drink something, since he knew food was out of the question, then decided it wasn't worth it - when Sherlock was like he was now, he was too keyed up. Besides, for all Sherlock was terrible at keeping himself fed, it was very good at keeping himself hydrated and didn't to be pressed to drink something the way he had to be to eat regularly.

Sherlock continued talking about what they would be doing; John listened carefully as he ate, but kept in mind that at any moment, Sherlock could completely upend all his plans.

"We should leave around thirty or so minutes from now. That will give us time for both suspects to clear out."

"That would be good," John said blandly. Sherlock continued to pace about, and John ignored him, choosing to finish his meal, then wash and put away the dishes, since they had time. Sherlock paid him no heed, not until John was drying the last of the dishes.

"Let's go--why are you not ready to go? I said thirty minutes!"

John rolled his eyes. "Well, tack an extra two or three onto that. I've nearly finished. Those two minutes for me to put away the rest won't make or break the case."

Sherlock made a disgusted noise. John ignored it and finished. "All right. Let me get my wallet and we'll go."

"Bring your gun."

"No."

Sherlock startled slightly. "Why not?"

"Because the last thing either of need is to turn housebreaking into aggravated burglary," he said blandly. "Besides, he's not likely to be armed, is he?"

Sherlock shook his head in a way that John could only describe as "begrudging."

"And there you are," he said, and headed up to his bedroom to grab his wallet. 

\--

They went to Hebron's flat first, as it was the closest. They made it to the front door, and Sherlock frowned, then shushed John, who had not even spoken.

"Not him," he proclaimed, and turned on his heel.

"But how--?" John started, then trotted after Sherlock, who by then seemed to already be halfway to the lift.

"Obvious."

"Not to me," John said, feeling like that was one of the most common things he said to Sherlock.

"He has a family. Stay-at-home wife with a baby, most likely their first," Sherlock said as he pushed the lift button

"Which eliminates him how? Loads of killers have families," John said.

Sherlock let out a withering sigh. "What he does takes time and privacy. Both of which Hebron is not likely to have right now. And the door clearly shows he's a devoted new father. Likely he bores everyone at work with pictures of his infant."

"How can you tell that from a _door_?" John asked, completely perplexed as the lift arrived.

"There are smudges on the door itself, not just the knob. Indicating someone often pushes the door open for someone. That someone is likely his wife. A man who constantly pushes and holds open a door for a pregnant wife then a wife carrying a baby indicates the attentiveness of a new father very content with his life. Not the type to go missing for hours on end so he can murder people in intricate ways, nor one with the free time to devise such murders. Not our man," he said, sweeping into the lift and pushing the button for the ground floor after John followed him in.

It never ceased to amaze John how Sherlock could pick up on the tiniest details so quickly. "You know that's amazing, right?" he said, not bothering to not tell the other man. For all Sherlock was completely full of himself most of the time, he was also almost shockingly pleased when someone complemented him on his powers of observation. He was too used to people insulting him about what he had observed - because the man had absolutely no brain-to-mouth filter and most people didn't like having all their intimate details laid out for the world so unflinchingly - that praise threw him. It was as if his arrogance and general spikiness were there to protect himself from the expected slings and arrows of the world, and when he was praised, it was as if the childlike joy in what he did that the pride and prickliness defended slipped through for just a moment.

"Yes, well," Sherlock said, his lips almost quirking up into a smile before he stuffed it back inside. "Like I said. Obvious."

The lift doors closed, and they headed down, then out, then off to their next destination.

\--

Monroe was living in a small house, well outside of London and closer to the airport.

"Wait here," Sherlock told the cabbie as they got out. "We shan't be long."

"Your money, bruv," the driver said with a shrug, and Sherlock rolled his eyes with obvious distaste. John gave the man an apologetic shrug back, and the cabbie shook his head. 

"Now, this is more like it," Sherlock said, perking up as soon as he got a good look at where they were. John scanned the perimeter as Sherlock poked around - someone had to keep an eye out, especially if, or rather, _when_ , Sherlock did end up deciding to break into the man's house.

As much as John liked being in the thick of things with Sherlock, he also knew Sherlock would have no qualms leaving him behind once he was on the scent, and he also knew Sherlock, for all he was observant, was utter pants about seeing anything _not_ directly related to the case at hand when he got like this. Someone had to keep the man safe from himself, and that job tended to fall to John.

Besides, if Sherlock wanted John's observations, he would loudly, and with great irritation, call him over.

So John positioned himself where he could do the most good; filling the role of look-out. It wouldn't do the investigation any good if someone called the police on them for housebreaking, after all, and they got _caught_.

He told himself this, because it was a lot easier than trying to get used to Sherlock forgetting about him. Sherlock was getting better about it than he had been in the early days, but John didn't want to force the issue all the time.

Luckily, Sherlock never took long whenever he engaged in a bout of housebreaking.

"He's good," Sherlock said as soon as he came out, eyes alight and a faint smile playing about his lips. "He doesn't keep trophies. Not here, at any rate."

John frowned. "Isn't that rare for serial killers?"

Something childlike lit up behind Sherlock's eyes. "That's why I said he's good."

John really hated how much joy Sherlock took in things most people took as perverse. The man's motives were pure, even though he knew there were very few who would see past how he presented to see it - and John was man enough to know he hadn't been able to for a long time himself - and it couldn't end well for him. One day, it would come back to bite him, likely bite them both, and it was only a matter of when, not if.

Sherlock knelt by the drive and tilted his head as he looked at some tyre tracks. "He has a van. It could be how he's transporting his victims."

"If he has a van, it's got to be registered to him," John said, and Sherlock nodded. 

"And there will be CCTV footage of it, if he's driven it to work."

"We have a lead."

"We have a lead."

\--

Sherlock was locked into his mobile as soon as they got back into the cab. "If anything happens, it will likely be tonight or tomorrow. He'll need time. I checked Munroe's schedule, and he has the next two days off after today. That would give him the time to make his next trickster."

John nodded, then took out his own phone and sent Greg a quick message, letting them know that they were pursuing a lead, and he'd let him know more and they got more information. 

Once he sent off the e-mail, John started tapping his finger on his knee in anticipation. Things were winding up, and just the thought of the chance set his blood pumping in the anticipation.

\--

They got back to Baker Street, and Sherlock immediately jumped in front of the closest computer - for once, _not_ John's - and began tapping away quickly. John knew better than to ask at that point - Sherlock wouldn't react to him at best and would snap at him at worst, so there wasn't much point in it. Instead, he broke down and oiled his gun, then put it back together. He almost wished he'd gone to work, just to pass the time and keep the antsiness down. 

He waited.

And then Sherlock jumped to his feet. "He's off shift and his van is on the move. He's going into the city but he's not home. Let's go," he said, and John was on his feet before Sherlock had even made it to his coat.

\--

Sherlock had his smartphone out, already having an app of some sort open, when they get into a cab. "Tracking his van," he said, before John could ask. "Go straight. Turn when I tell you," he barked.

The driver gave a shrug, but did as ordered. Sherlock led them through several twists and turns, never once taking his eyes off of his screen. 

"The van has stopped," Sherlock said suddenly. "And has been for the last ten minutes." He rattled off an address, and John was acutely aware of the gun at the small of his back.

\--

The taxi drove them to a factory district, and Sherlock immediately sat up excitedly. "The van," he said. The piled out of the van in front of a factory that, despite the lights streaming out from the windows, had clearly seen better, more functional days, and John quickly paid the cabbie, then sent him on his way, because if he needed his gun, the last thing he needed was a witness. 

Once the van was gone, they began creeping over to the factory building to look into the building. "...Scuff marks, in the dirt," he said, stopping shortly. "He's carrying something heavy, which is almost doubling his weight."

"His next trickster," John said, feeling cold in the pit of his stomach.

"Quite possibly," Sherlock said, with a nod. "Over there, the windows," he said, and they quickly headed over. Sherlock looked in, then let out an annoyed sound. "Can't see anything from here. We need to get in."

"Door's over there," John said, indicating with his chin where it was. If there was someone in there with him, they needed to get in, quickly. Sherlock headed over to it, and tried the door, then let out an expletive.

"Locked," he said, and pulled out his lock pick set as he knelt down before the door. While he started trying to pick the lock, John headed over to one of the other windows, to see if he could see anything this time from it.

At first, he didn't see anything, but then, almost obscured by some of the abandoned machinery, he saw a brief flash of someone wearing the yellow kitsune mask, and John cursed.

"We've _got_ to get in there, now," he said, and felt the weight of his gun against his back. There was an innocent civilian in there, in danger, and he was stuck out here, unable to do anything.

"Working on it," Sherlock said, trying to pick the lock and sounding irritated with John.

That was when they heard a high-pitched scream.

They looked at each other, and Sherlock started working faster as John called Lestrade.

\--

As soon as Sherlock got the door open, they took off in a run, John right after Sherlock, adrenaline making the blood all but sing in his veins.

Sherlock led without a fraction of hesitation, but when they finally reached where Monroe Jackson had gone, they both skittered to a halt at the same time and just _stared_.

"Well. This was not _quite_ what I was expecting," Sherlock finally said, blinking.

A small-statured woman in a pair of _very_ short shorts and a very _tight_ sparkly top had Jackson pinned to the ground and in what looked like a choke hold, and was screaming obscenities. Off to the side was the yellowed kitsune mask and what looked like a smashed syringe, and when John looked at Jackson's hand, it had the look of several broken fingers, likely from having been stomped repeatedly by a foot.

All John or Sherlock could do for a moment was stare.

The woman finally seemed to notice them. "Oy, you shit bags better be either calling for help or coppers, because if you're here to help this shitfuck I _will_ rip out your spleens and shove 'em so far up your cracks you'll be spitting out spleen chunks for a week, swear like on me mum!" she yelled. "And you, shut the fuck up or I knee you in the nuts again, I will!" she yelled at Jackson, who had started weakly crying for help. "Wanna see how high that scream of yours gets this time, once your bollocks get kicked into your abdomen?"

The girl looked over at them and snarled. "This cuntwaffle was going to try and off me or rape me or I don't even fucking care because _fuck_!" she yelled, and tightened her hold. Jackson made a wheezing, gurgling sound. "Finally get a fucking leave, I'm on my way to the fucking _club_ , and this knobshite fucking bops me on the head and drags me into his rapemobile, talking shite about a 'kitsune,' whatever the _fuck_ , I'm not even fucking __Japanese__ , you fucking racist garglecunt; I'm half __Korean__ and me mum's Israeli, you shit cunting knob!" she said, breaking her hold around his neck to slam his head against the floor again for good measure. He let out a piteous moan and she had him immediately in an efficient shoulder lock of some sort. "Oy. I said _shut the fuck up_ , you pathetic, whinging syphalitic nut sack! And you two, are you useless tossers coppers or not?" she yelled, looking back over her shoulder at John and Sherlock. "Because this twat needs to go bloody under the jail, hitting me on the head and dragging me off to this creepy abandoned factory like something out of Silent Hill and trying to jab me with roofies or whatever the _fuck_ was in that cunting needle! So are you gonna stand there gawping or are you going to take your heads out your arses and fucking _help me?_ What are you waiting for, engraved fucking invitations from the Queen?!"

John was having the hardest time keeping a straight face at the sheer amount of swear words coming out of the woman's mouth. He hadn't heard a stream of vulgarities like that since he left the military.

"No, we're not the police, but we work with them and they're on their way," John said mildly, pulling out a pair of zip-tie handcuffs to restrain Jackson until Lestrade came. And as he had suspected, several of Jackson's fingers were indeed broken, and he also had a dislocated shoulder, what looked to be a dislocated knee cap as well, and a rather nasty bruise to the throat developing from where she clearly had first gone for his windpipe.

"Move and I _stomp a mudhole in your face_ , douche maggot," the woman said as she released her hold and got up so John could restrain him.

Jackson, wisely, didn't move. John had to pull the man up into a seating position so he could fix his shoulder before he put the ties on him.

"I am a doctor, and this is going to hurt," John said, then set Jackson's shoulder. The man let out a whimper, and the girl snorted.

"Fucking arselicker better be glad I didn't have my service revolver! I'd have shot your bloody bollocks off instead of just trying to knee 'em back into your body cavity! 'Can't take your service pistol on leave,' they said, bloody well like to see them try and stop me next time. Oy, don't even look in my direction, you fucking cunt heel! I've shat out bigger challenges than you! _Wanker_ ," she groused, looking ready to stomp over and kick Jackson in the head a few times for good measure, and John gave up trying not to laugh as he handcuffed Jackson.

"Lestrade should be here in ten minutes. Plus an ambulance," Sherlock said, pocketing his phone and looking highly amused.

"Oh, good," John said mildly, then turned his head to the fuming woman. "Military?"

He could almost hear Sherlock rolling his eyes at the obviousness of even asking when she nodded, giving John a death glare, like she expected him to give her a hard time for it. "Army."

"That explains the swearing," he said, still chuckling. "And I was in a captain with the Northumberland Fusiliers, John Watson," he said mildly, and the girl straightened, going instantly into a more military stance.

"...Sir. Lieutenant Lucy Kim, sir," she said, looking slightly chastised, and he bit back both another grin and the sudden urge to ask her out.

"As you were," he replied back, and she promptly returned to a long stream of swears about what anatomically impossible things that "cunting cuntbag of a twat" could go do with himself while John did what he could for the rest of Jackson's injuries then checked the bump on the back of Kim's head.

\--

After Lestrade and his crew got there and they finished explaining to them what had happened, John's eyes were all but sparkling from the hilarity of it all, and he and Sherlock grinned at each other.

  
"Chinese?" Sherlock said.

"Sounds good," John said, chuckling slightly as he heard a fresh stream of blistering vulgarities coming from where Lt Kim was giving her statement to Donovan while a paramedic rechecked her head wound, and he very seriously considering the chances of him getting his head cut off if he went over and asked for Lt Kim's phone number.

"...then the fucking wanker tries to offer me twenty quid, like I'm a fucking whore, and I'm thinking, just walk away Luce, just walk away, so I turn around to leave and the knobend unclefucker goes and whacks me over the head! Then the little shit cunting cunt head--"

  
"I'd say the chances of getting kneed in the groin are high," Sherlock said, sounding amused.

"Can't blame a man for wondering," John said with a cheerful shrug and figuring Sherlock was right. "Come on, you go get a cab and I'll let Lestrade know we're leaving."

"Why bother? He'll see when we're gone."

"Yeah, see, this is why _I_ knew Lestrade's name was 'Greg' and you _didn't,_ " John said, just as cheerfully, and trotted off towards Greg.

\--

"So he was definitely working alone?" John asked, right before he popped his next-to-last dumpling into his mouth.

"Yes. I looked around while Lt Kim was swearing and before Lestrade came, and it was obvious. It shouldn't take him long to confess what happened."

Sherlock started chuckling slightly to himself, and John gave him an inquisitive look.

"We could just threaten to put Lt Kim in a room with him. I daresay he would confess before Lestrade even finished saying her name. After all, I do believe what we witnessed tonight was what is known as a 'kerb stomping', and I doubt he wants another round of that," Sherlock said mildly, but his eyes were lit up with amusement.

"God, I wish we could have seen the entire thing," John said wistfully. "It had to have been a thing of beauty, given that scream of his and that hold she had on him when we got there." He chuckled. "You know, I _almost_ felt sorry for Jackson. He thinks he's getting an easy target for his 'kitsune' trickster victim, and ends up with a woman who's been doing Krav Maga of all things since she was _seven_ and teaches it in the army."

"Now John, sympathy for a _serial killer_? Surely _that's_ 'a bit not good,' wouldn't you say? What _would_ people think?" Sherlock said exaggeratedly, and John gave him a two-finger salute.

Sherlock shot him a sly grin, then, quick as a snake, snatched the last dumpling off John's plate with his chopsticks.

"Hey! Now that was mine!" John said sharply.

"You weren't eating it," Sherlock said from around his chopsticks, giving a one-shouldered shrug. And while John was normally happy to see Sherlock eating, he'd _wanted_ that dumpling.

_Right. Turnabout, then_ , he thought, and went for the last shrimp shumai. Sherlock blocked him with a look of outrage, and then it was a strategic chopstick battle between the world's only consulting detective and an ex-army captain.

John hadn't been in a war for nothing, although there had been slightly fewer instances of sticking one's tongue out at the enemy in Afghanistan, and he felt more than just the slightest bit of pride as he got past Sherlock's line of defense and snagged the last shumai. He popped his hard-won dumpling into his mouth with relish, and was rewarded with Sherlock slouching into his chair with a pout.

John gave Sherlock a beatific grin, and Sherlock responded by sourly kicking his chair. For that, John went straight for Sherlock's fried noodles.

He lost that round spectacularly, and a fair bit of his chicken with broccoli to boot, but overall it was worth it - Sherlock actually got some vegetables in him, and he _had_ got that shumai before.  
  
He'd count that as an overall win, he would. And with the smug look Sherlock had had on his face as he popped the last piece of John's broccoli in his mouth, he reckoned Sherlock counted it as a win for himself.

And that was fine. _They_ were fine.

It was all _fine_. **  
**  



	6. Epilogue: An Impromptu Bit of Sorting

Two weeks after they solved the case and a week after John'd made Sherlock read (and watch) the entire Harry Potter series because the man had started all but literally climbing the walls with boredom, one day out of nowhere, Sherlock lifted his head up from dangling off the couch as he read something in what looked like Latin and proclaimed, "Ravenclaw."  
   
"I'm sorry, what?"  
   
"Ravenclaw. I am clearly a Ravenclaw."  
   
John chuckled, folding the paper he was reading. "I'd have guessed Slytherin."  
   
"Dull.  And Mycroft is Slytherin. He's a slimy fat git who wants to run the world and likes starting wars."  
   
"...OK, yeah, he's Slytherin," John said, not able to fault that logic.  "And I'm Hufflepuff, then, am I?"  
   
Sherlock gave him the look he only gave John when John did something he considered especially stupid. "Hardly. That's Lestrade's house. Sally's a Muggle and Anderson is a definitely a _Squib_."  
   
"So where am I?" he asked, genuinely curious - he'd have laid five quid on him getting Hufflepuff, if he'd have bet money at _all_ on Sherlock doing an impromptu _Sorting_ of all things.  
   
Sherlock made an annoyed noise. " _Gryffindor_ , of course. You with your taste for danger. Stop being so thick," he said. "That's why you're not in Ravenclaw," and went back to dangling his head off the side of the couch.  
   
Well. Yeah, Harry Potter was a win, then, John thought, and couldn't help the grin.  "A taste for danger, eh? Pretty sure you're in Gryffindor with me, then," he said, and the corner of Sherlock's lip went up.  
   
"Possibly," he said. "...Probably."  
   
" _Definitely_ ," John corrected. "Hermione was in Gryffindor, don't forget, and she was more clever than anyone, too. No Ravenclaw is going to go jumping over fences and playing guessing games with serial killers. That's a Gryffindor through and through.  Now, tell me what you changed my password to or I'm tossing your nicotine patches _and_ your cigarette stash. _And_ telling Mycroft you're bored and need something to do."  
   
"I take it back. You're Slytherin."  
   
"Too late. Already Sorted," John said, then tried "Gryff1nd0r" just to see.  "And never mind, got the password, thank you. A bit obvious, that."  
   
"Ten points to Gryffindor," came a low chuckle, then Sherlock went back to his book, tapping a finger against the book in what sounded an _awful_ lot to John like the drum beat to "Rumour Has It".  
   
John started typing up his blog, but decided this whole conversation was, like a lot of things that happened in the flat, _not_ for sharing.

And he didn't even notice he'd started humming the two note introduction to "Rumour Had It" in time with Sherlock's tapping. Not until Sherlock piped in humming the melody, and yeah - that one wasn't for the blog.  
   
\--  
   
And as he suspected, the next crime scene, Sherlock did _indeed_ pick up a stick, point it at Anderson, and yell, "Oh, _Avada Kadavra_!" at him.   
   
It didn't work, but John'd be damned if the look on everyone's faces hadn't been worth it.  
   
Also worth it was the look on their faces when John, without missing a beat, said, "Unforgivables are a bit not good, Sherlock."  
   
Sherlock looked over his shoulder. "Even on Anderson?"  
   
"Even on Anderson."  
   
He sighed dramatically as he tossed the stick, then turned back to the body.  
   
"The two of you are fucking _mental_ ," Sally burst out with, just as Anderson yelped, "HE reads Harry Potter?!", so John added, "And especially not good in front of Muggles," to Sherlock before he smiled at Donovan.  
   
John couldn't see it for certain because his back was to him, but he was pretty sure Sherlock was smiling, too.  
   
There were reasons, after all, for why they got on.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to this whole Tumblr thing, but feel free to share [this link](http://joudama.tumblr.com/post/135609257157/fic-sherlock-why-they-actually-do-get-on) for the fic!


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